Last night after cranking my heart rate at 155 for the last half of a 30 minute elliptical endurance, I arrived home to a healthy Megan prepared meal: tacos. [For the record, the 155 bpm is the 80% target for a 30 year old… Note to self: Don’t die.] After crunching down 2 with about 4 bites, a taco minus the crunchy corn home sounded less bad, so I tossed the ingredients into one of Maddy’s little plastic bowls… a fuchsia one. As I turned from the stove, I caught the little blond with my “Chapix,” or “Chap-Stick” for those of you who don’t speak Maddy-ese. “Give me that Chapix,” I said sternly. She’s now a serial “Chapix” thief having clipped 3 from me, so yeah, I was serious. Regardless, rather than cowering consensus from Miss Madison, the following negotiation took place:

“Papa, that’s my bowl.”
“Well, can I use it?”
“No.” (I sensed the sting was in play.)
“Can I use it if I let you use my Chapix?”

She’s 28 months old… I used to joke about how negotiating with Megan was tougher than with any lawyer. I can now gleefully imagine future Blond-on-Blonde negotiations. I think that’s called Karma.